


and you're in my arms

by eversincewefellapart



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DCU
Genre: AU - altered history, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, sad boys with sad futures holding onto each other for dear life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 09:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6369619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eversincewefellapart/pseuds/eversincewefellapart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The anniversary of his parents' death rolls by, but locked away in Clark's bedroom on the farm, the memory of dark streets and hand guns and shattered pearls don't matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you're in my arms

**Author's Note:**

> LISTEN i just watched BvS and im really sad and i wrote this. oops!! clark and bruce are like 17/18 here. details are handwavey. death is inevitable.
> 
> ([photo inspiration](https://41.media.tumblr.com/b06ae27c791fe5335d7ec94c84dc2c2f/tumblr_o4olovZAwa1udof81o1_500.jpg))

Clark’s always gentle and imploring, treating Bruce like he’s made of glass, like he can’t be touched too hard; it’s worse now, his big blue eyes way too close, way too sad, his hand hovering over Bruce’s cheek.

“Are you –?” he whispers.

“I’m fine, fucking hell,” Bruce snaps. Clark flinches, and suddenly looks even sadder.

Christ. Bruce blinks rapidly, gnashing his teeth together and snaking an arm around Clark’s waist, fisting his fingers into the soft, cheap cotton of his shirt. “M’fine, _Clark_ ,” he hisses. It’s kind of weird, how he speaks like he’s trying to lash at Clark’s pale skin with his words and have him retreat, but he – he’s clinging to Clark like a lifeline, like if Clark did even try to run away, Bruce would never let him go.

Bruce probably wouldn’t be able to keep him. Clark probably isn’t going to run away.

“Okay,” Clark says, because he just gets it. He rests his hand on Bruce’s cheek, finally, and closes those damn eyes and lets Bruce shove his face into the crook of his neck and sob there, furiously, eyebrows wrinkling angrily, tears hot and snot sticky.

Clark doesn’t move away from the grossness, and doesn’t even seem to notice it in the first place. When Bruce finally looks up, he just sees the boy’s glassy eyes, damp lashes, flushed cheeks and trembling mouth. God, his _mouth_. It’s so pink and full. He’s so beautiful, even when he’s crying. Bruce probably looks like an angry, messy dog or something.

Clark does move when Bruce surges up and kisses him, hot and open-mouthed from the get-go, but it’s not to lurch away; he just keens, angles his face down, his lashes long enough that Bruce feels them flicker against his skin when Clark closes his eyes.

It becomes not enough quickly; Bruce, demanding and always used to getting what he wants, tugs roughly on Clark’s shirt. The seam of the collar pulls apart, not enough for anyone to notice yet, at least until Martha takes it out of the washing machine the next time they do the laundry. Clark follows Bruce, folding down from where he’d been curled protectively around Bruce, elbows on his pillows, and lying next to him, wrapping his arms around Bruce’s waist. Bruce nudges his knee between Clark’s legs, and Clark tightens a leg around Bruce’s knee, and Bruce is fine, he’s _fine_.

They’ve had sex a lot since the first time, and in different ways, escalating from shaky hand jobs to angsty blow jobs to blow jobs that involved a lot of giggling and snorting, and one time Bruce’s cock slipped between Clark’s thighs, and then the next time his cock slid _inside_ of Clark, and it’s all good, it’s all so good and they’re tired and wrung out each and every time, but he finds that this way is still his favourite way. It’s childish, and maybe he’ll grow out of it one day, but right now there’s nothing better than being on his side, mouth open and panting against Clark’s, rutting their hips together, legs tangled, clinging to each other’s backs. It feels like they’re melting into each other, and they watch each other lose it through half-shut eyes; it’s always a silent contest, who’ll be so overcome first that they’ll have to shut their eyes from the pleasure. Bruce hasn’t lost that contest yet, and he doesn’t lose today, either.

Clark’s body pulls tight a handful of seconds after he squeezes his eyes closed, his mouth slipping away from Bruce’s wetly, trails of saliva slapping against his chin. Bruce chases it blindly, twitches when Clark’s hips push forward once, twice, his breathing coming out in punches until he sags against his pillows, fingers going lax against Bruce’s back.

Bruce always marvels at how quickly finishes with Clark – the boys and girls at school only make him frustrated, and alone, his wrist becomes achy by the time he’s finally come. It’s not like this, over before it began, mellow as he grinds against Clark, who’s regained his thoughts and is watching, slack mouthed, as Bruce shakes apart.

“Are you –“ he starts, and bites his lip so quickly on it that the annoyance about to creep into Bruce dissipates instantly.

“I’m fine,” he promises anyway. “Really.” Clark frowns. “Don’t do that.” Clark glances away, cheek catching the plush of the pillow. His glasses are askew. Bruce reaches over and pulls them off, and then reaches over again and thumbs over Clark’s bottom lip, over the teeth marks. “Promise.”

“Yeah.” Clark isn’t convinced, but neither is Bruce, so he guesses it’s fair. “Okay.” They should probably move now, but – everything feels dirty and close and _one_ , so Bruce would rather die than move, honestly. “Just – if you need anything, let me know, okay?”

Bruce levels a look with Clark, who’s sucking on his bottom lip, looking lost and uncertain and fucked. “I will,” he says. “Can we just sleep now?”

Clark nods jerkily. “Yeah. Okay.” His hand slides up Bruce’s back, cupping his neck, fingers stroking the base of his neck gently.

Bruce sinks into the touch. He’s really fucking tired. Crying makes him sleepy, and so does sex, and both those things combined with the warmth of Clark’s body has his body hurting to shut down, just for a little while, until at least this day passes and the clock hits 12:01.

“Just,” he says without thinking, and Clark’s body jerks into attention so suddenly he doesn’t know whether to get angry or get sad. “One thing.”

“Y – yeah?” Clark asks. “What? What is it?”

Bruce feels exceptionally pathetic. “Don’t go.”

“What?”

“Don’t go,” Bruce repeats, louder. “Don’t leave.”

“Oh.” Clark looks confused. “Okay. I’m not going.”

“Okay,” Bruce says, and closes his eyes. “Thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” Clark sighs, sinking closer.

“Everyone leaves me,” Bruce says, and immediately hates himself. He hopes to God Clark will just pass this off as him mourning, but realistically, he knows – he knows he’s sulky and depressing most of the time. It’s just so much worse today.

Clark’s body has gone rigid. Bruce wants it to go soft again. He opens his mouth to say as much, but Clark speaks before him, voice shaky but firm.

“Not me,” he says, fierce, loud and quiet enough just for the two of them. “Not me. I’m not leaving.”

Bruce almost believes it.


End file.
